The Hunt is on
by hobgoblin123
Summary: Love's never easy, and Damien Vryce has to face a terrible truth... Vryce/Tarrant; warning: slash and violence
1. Chapter 1

The Hunt is on

Disclaimer: I don't own the Coldfire Trilogy, and no profit is intended (not that anybody would be mad enough to pay me for my writing, lol)

Warning: Although the first chapter is harmless the story will contain torture and sexual assault later on, so if you are into more fluffy stories or had to endure some traumatic experiences please consider yourself warned. I'm going to place another warning at the beginning of chapter two and an author's note at the end of the story. Don't want to offend anybody and hope you won't be spitting mad with me. Reviews and discussions welcome.

Damien Vryce ran as fast as his legs would carry him, and the dingy streets of one of Jaggonath's meaner areas passed by in a blur. Salty drops of sweat burned his eyes, and in spite of the rather cool spring evening his clothes were sticking to his body while his breath came in choking sobs, his lungs burning as if scorched by the toxic fumes of Mount Shaitan.

In a desperate attempt to clear his mind Damien shook his head, like a horse trying to chase away some irksome flies. Why on Erna was he thinking of Mount Shaitan, the most infamous volcano on the Eastern continent? Not a very scenic spot, as far as he was concerned, and certainly not a place he would care to visit, not even in his dreams.

But he _had_ dreamed of Shaitan, hadn't he? Dimly Damien remembered a landscape that could have been transferred to the surface of Erna from the realms of hell, remembered floating silvery shadows, a tall figure in flowing robes collapsing in a heap at the crater's edge and a feeling of personal loss and grief so intense that in his dream he had wept like a lost child.

Danger! Another surge of immediate terror hit him without warning, stopping any attempt of rational thinking, and Damien nearly tripped over his own feet. A faceless threat so terrifying and vile, so nauseating was lurking on him that his soul recoiled from it. Feeling like a walking target all his instincts screamed at Vryce that he had to keep moving in his search for a safe hiding place.

For a short moment the tiny part of his brain that hadn't already drowned in the visceral fear that raged through him like a wildfire struggled to the surface, and Damien wondered why he acted so out of character, running away like a scared rabbit instead of fighting to his death, but the coherent thought triggered a wave of dizziness so intense he had to lean to a wall for support.

Panting for dear life Damien tried to catch his breath. His blurred vision clearing a bit he realized that the miserable shacks had apparently given way to more spacious buildings, the dwellings of the affluent citizens of Jaggonath. Maybe one of the elegant premises would provide him with the dearly needed shelter from the unknown escapee from the pits of hell that was haunting him, a secure haven to rest his body and recover his wits.

Vryce wiped the sweat from his face and scanned his surroundings. The wall who had served to hold him upright belonged to a dignified villa, not pretentiously painted like so many of its neighbours, but evidently old and valuable. No nameplate decorated the front door, and the windows were dark. Damien sighed with relief. An uninhabited house was exactly what he needed: bringing harm to innocent people by his mere presence would be anathema to everything he believed in.

_'There __are __no __innocents'_. The statement floated through his mind, gentle like a baby's breath in spite of its appalling message, and Damien shivered. He remembered the voice so clearly, smooth and silky, but underlined with deadly malevolence. A male voice, of that he was sure, but try as he might he could remember neither the face nor the name of its cruel owner, and when Vryce tried to force the memory he was struck by another wave of that indescribable dizziness that made him sway on his feet.

Gasping Damien leaned to the wall again, blinking like an owl. As a healer he recognized the first signs of a threatening physical collapse, and he realized that he had to make a choice quickly. Although quite proficient in both man-to-man and man-to-faeborn combat battling a nasty high-order demon or even one of the numerous thugs who roamed the streets at night was out of the question in his current condition, not to mention facing a whole horde of either of them.

Vryce pondered his options. He could still try to escape, maybe hide in a church, on holy ground, but he felt inexplicably drawn to this deserted mansion that promised him safety. His conscious mind overwhelmed by a compelling lure that seemed somehow familiar Damien pushed the massive alteroak door open, not even wondering why it hadn't been locked in the first place.

Silence and darkness greeted him, and Damien groped his way blindly while his eyes tried to adjust. When he was finally able to recognize at least part of his surroundings the former priest stiffened and bit back a heartfelt curse. To his dismay the villa evidently wasn't uninhabited at all, the long corridor leading to a spacious study, tastefully furnished with a mixture of exquisite antiques and stylish modern furniture, but literally overflowing with books. Huge volumes bent the shelves that lined the walls in abundance, and stacks of books and notes crowded the big numahogany table.

Evidently he had invaded the home of a scholar who devoted his life to the pursuit of knowledge, a thought that struck a chord inside Damien. In spite of his disorientation he still harboured a dim memory that once he had known the true embodiment of that overwhelming hunger for enlightenment, had admired that fierce craving in spite of his fervent dislike of the man's corruption, but again there was no face to accompany the memory, just a seductive, inhuman whisper. '_I __sold __my __soul __for __knowledge'_.

Damien shuddered involuntarily, his skin crawling. The voice had sounded so real, so frighteningly familiar, but during his extensive travels in the service of the Church he had never stayed long enough at one and the same place to make friends, and most certainly none of his comrades in the Order of the Golden Flame had told him he had sold his soul to the Forces of Evil, for whatever purpose. Nothing that abysmal had happened in the Order's history since the lamentable fall of the Prophet more than nine hundred years ago. Maybe he was simply going crazy, losing his ability to divide between reality and illusion, but yet…

Another wave of mind blowing horror struck the former priest, and his knees buckled. When Damien was able to reopen his eyes at last he found himself on the floor, whimpering like a frightened child and unable to stand up. _Pull __yourself __together __and __get __moving, __Vryce,_ he admonished himself and started to crawl towards an inconspicuous door next to the study's entrance that revealed some uneven steps leading to the basement. Laboriously Damien managed to drag himself back to his feet and started his descend into darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

Aaargh, somehow I seem to be too stupid to upload multi-chaptered stories… Decided to cut the chapter in half, so still no violence

Downstairs Damien found himself in a lightless, claustrophobic space that forced him to grope his way along the wall again until, to his profound relief, he finally found the entrance to another room.

When the door opened with a sinister creaking Vryce couldn't suppress a shocked moan. The unbelievable scenario in the adjoining, much more spacious chamber seemed to have arisen either from the sick mind of a human being who had left the realms of sanity long ago or from the malignant imagination of a demon.

Meter by meter of pitch black velvet shrouded the walls and created a surreal, nightmarish atmosphere. A sea of flickering candles reflected in the obsidian black floor tiles, but the menacing horror of the chamber seemed to suck in all light and warmth. From the posts of the imposing bed that dominated the room handcuffs dangled threateningly, and in the background a collection of vicious whips and various gruelling instruments of torture were faintly visible.

Wide eyed the former priest couldn't help but stare, but at long last his deeply ingrained warrior instincts asserted themselves, and he whirled around for a quick getaway.

„Don't you dare to run, priest! "

Vryce froze dead in his tracks. A trap! Like a bloody rookie he had fallen into a trap that had apparently been prepared meticulously just for his benefit. His forehead beaded with sweat Damien didn't dare to move a limb, but the fog in his brain had lifted a bit, and slowly but surely his befuddled brain cells recommenced their work.

A malevolent Working ruled out in the wake of the taming of the fae one single man shouldn't be a problem for a trained warrior, but very possibly there were more of them lurking in the shadows. Grisly urban legends still travelled from mouth to mouth, whispering in hushed tones of dark cults, human sacrifices and deadly creatures that had no name, but whose mere presence was sufficient to drive any sane human being crazy. Maybe the 'man' wasn't a man at all, but one of the deadly faeborn creatures that still haunted the planet.

His speculations were interrupted by a malicious chuckle that didn't bode well. "You think you can fight me? You've got no chance, priest, but I'd love to see you try. And fail."

Damien swallowed. He had half expected the silky tones that haunted his delusions, but the amused voice was different, reassuringly human, although every syllable oozed with the same annoying arrogance he remembered from his daydreams.

Vryce tensed, readying himself for a desperate fight, but a cold blade pressed to the side of his neck stopped him instantly. So the bloody bastard wasn't unarmed, and his chances had dropped by several degrees.

"What do you want of me, you vulking son of a bitch?" Damien growled, not quite able to suppress his temper in spite of the overt threat.

"Want of you?" Now the voice was purring directly into his right ear, low with twisted pleasure. "You can do so many things for me, priest. You can bleed for me, or maybe scream a bit, or beg me to stop hurting you. Who knows?" An insistent hand fondled his left cheek, and Damien flinched. "But let's save that for later, shall we? We can go easy for now and start with your clothes." In a heartbeat the animalistic purr changed to the deadly hiss of a poisonous snake. "Take off your pathetic rags. Instantly!"

For a moment Damien tensed, tempted to attack in spite of the danger, but he froze again when the knife was pressed harder to his skin. Sudden pain bloomed in his neck, and he felt a trickle of blood running down slowly into the collar of his shirt.

The hot breath singing his sweaty skin quickened with anticipation, and accompanied by a low moan a greedy tongue started licking at the rivulets of blood, but the hands that pressed the bloody knife to his carotid artery were completely steady. Damien barely managed to suppress a gagging, appalled by the repugnant violation. Dear God, what kind of unholy creature was feeding on him? Was he doomed to become the prey of a vampire? Considering the absolute soundlessness of the stranger's approach the thesis wasn't too far fetched.

Vryce shuddered with revulsion, but the man's lips on his skin felt very human, soft and warm, and to his horror Damien's body responded strangely to the uncannily familiar stimulation in spite of his disgust. He faintly remembered a cold mouth on his throat, glittering eyes that sucked any warmth from his soul, and white teeth so much sharper that a human being's had any right to be, but his head swam too much again to focus on the fleeting images.

After what seemed to be an eternity the lips withdrew, and the stranger stepped back an inch or two, catching his breath. When he spoke up again his voice was hoarse and strangled, as if fighting for words. "I don't like to repeat myself, priest. Take… off… your… clothes! You won't like it if I have to do it myself."

"Like hell I will, you sick bastard!" Damien thundered in a desperate attempt to shatter his antagonist's self control. If he could get that pervert angry enough to make a mistake he might be able to overpower him, knife or no knife. "Want me to do the dirty work for you? No way! If you want me naked, well, here I am."

To his disappointment his provocation wasn't answered with an outburst of wrath, but with an amused chuckle. "You underestimate me again, priest. You always do. But you will obey me, I can assure you. They all do, in the end."

Surprisingly the stranger withdrew the knife, and Damien readied himself for an attack, but reconsidered when he heard a pistol being cocked. No chance to be faster than one of those damned weapons. Vryce still preferred a sword or his springbolt, weapons that required long hours of practise and talent. Any wretched mugger could kill with a gun. There was no honour in it, no pride.

"Ready to indulge me now, priest? Or do you need some incentive?" the haughty voice interrupted his musings. "I could aim for your right knee. Or do you prefer the left one? Not that I want to hurt some of the vital parts. Not yet, anyway".

Vryce decided to play along. Getting wounded wouldn't help him but reduce his meagre chances even further. At last he was naked, shivering with a mixture of wrath and dread. No human being should be reduced to feel like he did, absolutely vulnerable, at the mercy of a deranged lunatic. Damien seriously doubted that his attacker possessed a shred of it.

"That's a good boy", the stranger breathed, apparently delighted with his vulnerability. A slender hand slid over his left biceps, probing, testing the firmness of the muscle in a way very much reminiscent of a horse dealer who checked the quality of the goods. "You've got the strong body of a true warrior, priest. I think you will please me for a long, long time." His nemesis chortled again, and the sheer malice in his voice made Vryce's skin crawl. "Now make yourself comfortable on the bed, on your stomach, if you don't mind. Oh, and don't forget to put on the handcuffs. We don't want you to be naughty, do we?"

On trembling legs Damien stalked over to the bed, his thoughts racing. As soon as he was chained to the bedposts he would be absolutely helpless, ready for the slaughter. Or for whatever atrocities the stranger had in mind. With regard to the tools that glinted maliciously in the candlelight and the maniac's ominous hints he might very well beg for his death before the night was over. Warrior or not, if life had taught Vryce one thing it was the fact that you could break anybody if you were 'persuasive' enough.

"Get going! I'm running out of patience."

For an instant Damien considered an attack again: a clean death by a well aimed bullet was surely preferable to dying under torture in screaming agony, but he decided to bide his time and wait for an opening. Slowly stretching out on the blood red silk sheets he fumbled with shaking hands for what seemed to be an eternity until he managed to close the iron ring around his left wrist. His right hand was still free, and he just had to lure the stranger into approaching him. _Just __wait __until __I __get __my __fingers __around __your __miserable __throat__ …"_

"And how do you expect me to chain my other hand to the bed, you hare brain?" Damien sneered, putting all the contempt and disgust he felt into his voice.

The only answers to his challenge were a soft laughter and silent, gliding footsteps languidly approaching him. _The __stealth __of __a __predator_, Damien thought with a shudder, and his doubts regarding his attacker's humanity redoubled.

"Don't worry, I am here to help, priest." The voice dripped with sarcasm again, and Damien muttered a heartfelt curse under his breath. "But I would like you to close your eyes first. Defy me, and I will make you regret the day you were born. Do you understand?"

Seething Vryce obeyed. Up to this point he hadn't even seen a hair of his nemesis, but from the angle of the dagger that had been held to his throat he had got the distinct impression that the stranger was smaller than himself and very possibly slightly built. _Come __closer_, Damien thought grimly, _just __come __closer,__and __I __will __teach __you __a __lesson __or __two __about __the__ '__strong __body __of __a __true __warrior__'__, __you __bloody __bastard_.

His wishes were granted when the man stepped forwards to reach for the handcuffs, but the pressure of a muzzle to Damien's right temple instantly stopped any attempts of getting out of this tight spot. In a blink his right hand was chained as well, the task effortlessly performed by the stranger one-handed. Damn! The son of a bitch had bested him again.

Inwardly Damien raged at his helplessness, his heartbeat increasing with immediate terror while a faint sheen of sweat appeared on his tanned skin. His dread increased tenfold when his head was lifted unceremoniously to make room for a blindfold. Desperately Damien tried to calm down his breath, very well aware that panicking wouldn't help his situation. Forcing down his fear Vryce pricked up his ears.


	3. Chapter 3

At first he couldn't pick up much, just a soft rustle of clothes, but he almost jumped out of his skin when a vicious crack resonated in the basement chamber. A whip! That maniac evidently meant business, and Damien steeled himself. Soft leather touched his back, tickled his skin, was dragged down from the back of his neck to his nether cheeks and up again in a hypnotic rhythm until Damien shuddered.

A slender hand caressed his hair, brushing back the sweaty strands with almost maternal tenderness, and a kiss was placed on his forehead. When a faint, very pleasant smell of sandalwood and incense with a sprinkle of cinnamon invaded Damien's nostrils, spicy, exotic and absolutely familiar, he leaned into the touch, for a moment completely oblivious to the danger. He knew that scent by heart, knew that it cost a small fortune and was produced in small quantities by Jaggonath's finest perfumery exclusively for …for….

Suddenly the stranger's grip tightened, and Vryce's head was dragged back by his hair until he thought the bones of his neck would snap at any moment. "Now you are mine, priest", the faceless voice whispered, and Damien registered the glimmer of madness that belied the calm tones. "Mine to do as I please, and right now I want to teach you a lesson on the pleasure of pain. You should have obeyed me right from the beginning. But you never chose the easy way, don't you?"

When the whip hit his back with a vengeance Damien buried his teeth in his lower lip and held his breath. He wouldn't please that creep with his groans of pain, not yet. A few lashes more, applied methodically without any haste, and beads of sweat were running down his face while he bit down into one of the pillows. _Bastard!_ All at once the lashing stopped, but Vryce didn't delude himself into thinking that his ordeal was already over. No, that twisted son of a bitch certainly had something special in mind for him, the whipping just being the appetizer for the barbarous hunger of his torturer.

The eerie silence seemed to drag on for hours while Vryce waited helplessly for the next assault, grateful for the short reprieve that allowed him to catch his breath and to steel himself for the resumption of his torment. But whatever Damien had been expecting hadn't prepared him for a naked, willowy body straddling him right after a huge pillow had been shoved under his abdomen without further ado. A hot tongue licked at him again, greedily sampling his sweat and the blood that oozed from the gashes on his back. It burned like the fires of hell, and Damien squeezed his eyes shut, revolted beyond words.

"You taste so good, priest!" the stranger moaned into his right ear. "Just the right amount of sweet fear with a delectable pinch of resistance. It's so much more enjoyable to break obstinate prey. But let's not waste time with drivel."

Something hard and demanding pressed into the small of Vryce's back, and the former priest very nearly choked on his own breath. Dear God, that creature was a sadist in the true sense of the word; sexually aroused by his suffering he was just about to rape him!

_No! __Not __that!_ Naked panic got the better of Damien and drowned his capacity for rational thinking. Yelling with dread he bucked wildly and writhed in his shackles until his wrists were bleeding, but to no avail. His nemesis allowed him to rage against his fate for a while, without a doubt taking unhealthy pleasure in his futile efforts, but at last the blade was pressed to the side of his neck again, a wordless, but very effective threat. Damien became still like death itself. "Damn you, you bastard. If this is over, and I still live, I will kill you."

"You keep repeating yourself, priest." The rebuke was delivered calmly, absolutely unabashed and in complete control, but a slight tremor in his voice betrayed the stranger's excitement.

When something slick probed at his nether cheeks, demanding entrance, Damien gritted his teeth. He would survive what was to come, and he would make that abomination pay for his deeds, even if that was the last thing he'd ever do.

To his amazement the invasion didn't hurt as much as Damien had expected, the stranger gliding into him effortlessly, with consummate grace. At first the thrusts were careful and controlled, but soon enough their pace accelerated, and Damien balled his hands into fists and cried out in pain when sharp teeth bit down into the back of his neck, drawing blood. His own scream was matched with the wild outcry of his attacker whose body convulsed against his back in long, shuddering spasms while his nails left deep scratches on Vryce's shoulders. The last thing Damien heard before the curtain came down for his consciousness might have been his name.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter four:

When Damien slowly came to himself again he was snugly wrapped in a warm blanket and an even warmer embrace. Carefully he rolled his shoulders and winced. The welts on his back, his wrists and the bite mark on his neck still burned, but evidently some cooling salve and gauze dressings had been applied, and although he was tired and his old bones ached as if he'd been run over by a coach, drawn by at least eight horses, nothing had been done that a bit of rest and time wouldn't heal. In fact he felt good enough to notice the appetizing smells that were caressing his nostrils. Roast beef? Damien's stomach grumbled noisily, and he opened his eyes.

A dark gaze met his, soft with concern and fondness, and a hint of a smile tugged at the corners of his lover's mouth. "Are you all right…Damien?" Just a slight pause, but exactly long enough to inform him that the use of his Christian name was a reward, and that more elaborate recompenses might be in store for him.

Inwardly Damien shook his head, but smiled back broadly, his eyes feasting on his mate's face. The years hadn't marred Gerald's beauty, and the occasional grey in the black strands suited him well. Tenderly Damien stroked a beardless cheek. "Don't fret, beloved, I'm okay. Feel better now?"

Gerald nodded, his smile widening slightly, and he curled up with a contented sigh in Damien's arm. In spite of his experience of nearly two decades with his lover's peculiarities Vryce couldn't stop marvelling at the change that had been wrought in a few minute's time, the sadistic torturer miraculously transforming to a caring, affectionate man immediately after his climax. Damien pulled the adept closer and stretched out his hand to brush back a strand of black hair, just as he had done on a certain fateful day eighteen years ago.

What had been supposed to be their final good-bye on Black Ridge Pass had proved to be a new beginning, something so unexpected that Damien never ceased to wonder about it in all the long years that remained to him. When he had finally been able to process that Gerald had somehow managed to survive the crusade and his apparent 'decapitation' by his last living descendant he had went on his knees with no regard to the goggling tourists to mutter one of the most grateful prayers of his life. God had answered his calls and had freed Gerald Tarrant from the clutches of evil to grant His former prophet a third chance. So God's name _was_ mercy, after all, and Vryce had shed a few tears of naked relief and gratefulness.

Still in high spirits Damien made for his favourite dae, the Dark Knight, to honour that indomitable soul who had bested death again with a few mugs of ale. The pub was crowded with excited tourists, and the air was thick with smoke and mouth-watering smells alike. To his amazement Vryce found himself picking at his steak with potatoes in spite of his voracious hunger, and the babbling of the numerous voices going over their day's adventures started getting on his nerves.

Damien tried to reassure himself by pretending that he simply wasn't used to this hustle and bustle anymore and missed the quiet camp fires under an open sky dotted with glittering stars, but with a low sigh he was forced to admit that the true cause for his nagging discomfort lay elsewhere, had in fact left him to his own devices with accustomed determination. There simply was no way of fooling himself: he had to accept that he missed his former companion more than he missed Ciani, poor Rasya or even his vocation, and that imagining living his life without that arrogant, stubborn know-it-all son of a bitch at his side was unthinkable, a very disturbing fact indeed.

Deeply lost in thought Damien didn't even realize that another customer had approached his table, looking for an unoccupied chair to make himself comfortable.

"Is this seat taken?" Recognizing the unfamiliar voice with its so familiar cadences Vryce nearly choked on his ale. When he was finally able to stop coughing and gasping he looked up with watery eyes, just to meet a sardonic stare directed at him.

"Really, Vryce, has nobody taught you to savour your drink instead of knocking it back like a drunkard? That's disgusting, you know. But how anybody can enjoy that kind of miserable tipple escapes me, anyway."

Damien glared, caught off balance. _Business __as __usual_, he thought wryly, and had to hide a smile in spite of his ire. Whatever Gerald's appearance or state of existence, his soul evidently remained true to itself, and if Damien was honest he wouldn't have wanted it otherwise. Well, he wouldn't mind a bit of fine tuning now and then…

"If you want the seat, stranger, sit down, but don't you try to be snotty with me", Vryce grumbled, not half as cross as he sounded. Glad as he was about this unexpected, but very welcome reunion he didn't begrudge Gerald his usual haughty attitude. In fact Damien got the impression that the adept was actually trying to provoke a bit of bickering, a comfortingly familiar constant factor in a changing world and relationship.

With a slight smile Gerald settled on the chair without further ado and called a serving maid to order a bottle of red wine with two glasses. Damien didn't even wonder that he was served instantly while the merry, singing tourists had to wait a little bit longer. If he hadn't been busy killing them his friend had always had a knack with women, just to mention his old love Ciani who'd appreciated Gerald far too much for his peace of mind…

Smiling inwardly about his old memories and his futile jealousy Damien faced his former brother in arms and rose his glass. "And your name, stranger? I'd really like to know with whom I get drunk."

"Gerald Hawthorne, at your service", Gerald replied with another one of his infuriating half smiles, and Damien had to suppress a good-natured grin. _Hawthorne, __is __it?_ He thought dryly, not in the least surprised that Gerald had chosen the name of a tree for a pseudonym, a small reminder of his lost forest.

After a bit of small talk concerning the changes on Erna silence descended on them while they sipped their wine, the candle on the table burned down slowly and their thoughts danced around all the topics they couldn't mention without endangering the adept's life. Damien caught himself staring at Gerald in awe. He looked so alive, so human now, his dark eyes glowing in the soft light, the young face relaxed and slightly flushed with wine and the heat from the fire. Try as he might Damien wasn't able to take his eyes off Hawthorne, and he reached out unthinkingly to stroke back a strand of black hair that had escaped Gerald's braid. When a questioning gaze met his own Damien gulped down some air, his heart suddenly in his mouth while his hand still hovered close to Gerald's face.

The adept blinked, vulnerability and confusion warring on his face with a feeling Damien didn't dare to put a name to and wouldn't have thought possible a few hours ago. Then Hawthorne swallowed, and after taking a deep breath he tilted his head side wards, ever so slightly, until his left cheek rested against Vryce's palm. Damien froze and forgot how to breathe. He felt slightly dizzy, strangely elated and terrified out of his wits at the same time while dae, customers and the rest of the world faded into non-existence, eclipsed by those mesmerizing black eyes.

"Well, Vryce", Gerald breathed, still looking a bit befuddled himself, "I never bothered to learn the appropriate contemporary phrase, but would you prefer my modest place or yours?"

In the end they settled for Gerald's place, Damien's small, rented room definitely sub par for the adept's standard. The short stroll in amicable silence took place without further touches or embraces, but even so Damien was very well aware of the graceful movements of the slender body at his side, and by now he was feeling a bit out of sorts. Naivety wasn't one of his character traits, and he was damn sure to which unknown shores this adventure would lead them. Certainly Gerald wasn't taking him home in the middle of the night just to show him his lodgings or a collection of paintings.

The 'modest home' turned out to be one of the houses hastily erected for those of the throng of tourists still pestering Black Ridge Pass who didn't want to settle for a hotel room, but preferred to rent a whole house. Some of the furniture had evidently been transported here from quality shops in Jaggonath, and to Damien's amazement the atmosphere was pleasant, even homely, with no resemblance to the menacing interior of the Hunter's keep.

Provided with another glass of wine Damien was shown around the house, but his attention on the undoubtedly exquisite interior was more and more distracted by a strange mixture of apprehension and anticipation. In fact he was more interested in looking at Gerald, preferably minus his stylish clothes, instead of fawning over antiques and old books.

Maybe Damien should have paid at least some attention to what he was doing, because in the living room he tripped over an obviously very expensive rug with an intricate pattern of flowers and birds framing a battle scene and spilled the contents of his glass over Gerald's red silk shirt. _Damn!_ Damien flushed with embarrassment. Why did he have to behave like an elephant in a china shop, for heaven's sake?

"You should take it off, you know", Damien rasped and blushed at the same instant.

"Take it off?" Gerald raised a delicate eyebrow and stepped closer. "What for?"

"Just for soaking, I mean. The stain…" Damien trailed off helplessly, a weird, but not altogether uncomfortable flutter budding in his stomach

For once Gerald seemed to agree with him and the ruined shirt was tossed carelessly on the floor, avoiding the precious rug by a hair's breath. Soon enough it was followed by his trousers and Damien's clothes, and for the rest of the night they were much too busy for soaking shirts, silk or not.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter five:

I still don't own the Coldfire trilogy.

Please beware: violence and rape, but nothing explicit

They had just started sharing a rented house in Jaggonath when Damien came home from work one day to find Gerald systematically smashing their living room to pieces with his bare hands. The adept's restless, tetchy behaviour over the last few weeks had warned Damien that something was seriously amiss, but the savage, barely human expression on Gerald's face scared the wits out of him. His lover looked ready to participate in a slaughter, and Damien knew better than to take this fact lightly.

When the better part of their furniture had been transformed to wooden splinters Gerald turned round and faced Damien, looking at the former priest as if he'd never seen him before. Then a ferocious smirk passed over his features, and Damien swallowed convulsively. He had loathed the Hunter with all his heart, had been appalled by his cruelty, but he had never been afraid of him, not in the conventional sense. Now he was as afraid _of_ Gerald as he was _for_ him. Warily Damien stepped back an inch or two, but kept eye contact, exactly as he would have done when faced with a wild, hungry animal.

"Gerald, what's going on here?" he questioned, wondering about the steadiness of his voice. Not a very clever question, maybe, but hopefully the opportunity to criticize his intelligence, or lack thereof, would be enough of an incentive for Gerald to shrug off his current state.

His hopes were crushed instantly when Hawthorne stepped threateningly closer, deliberately invading his personal space. Damien had seen the adept poised to kill, burning to unleash his murderous power for his pleasure, but never ever the Hunter had displayed such an unnerving aura of madness. The bestial grin widened while a primeval power forced itself into Damien's mind, immobilizing his body and soul and rendering him absolutely helpless. Before Damien could so much as blink his mate was upon him, growling like a rabid animal, and took him down in spite of his much smaller statue.

What followed was a nightmare, the act even more revolting because it was committed by the man he loved more than his own life. When, after an eternity, Gerald was finished with him the adept seemed to wake up from a trance, and only the look of heartfelt horror on his face prevented Damien from killing him on the spot.

"Damien, I didn't want to…" Gerald stretched out a trembling hand to touch Damien's bloody face, but Vryce shrank back from it with a shudder of disgust.

"Don't you touch me, you monster" he spat. "Don't even try to talk to me. I curse the day I've met you, and may God grant me never see your face again! To think I trusted you, I loved… Dear God! Now I know why they say 'love is blind'!"

Tears of anger and grief ran down Damien cheeks, and he nearly choked on his words. "Do you want to know what I offered in exchange for a Healing when Tarrant's bloody heart failed him? My own vulking life, stupid fool that I am. Do you listen to me, you demented bastard? MY OWN LIFE IN EXCHANGE FOR HIS MISERABLE EXISTENCE!"

Gerald blanched and reached for him again, but Damien was way beyond being able to forgive. Dredging up the last remnants of his resolve he staggered to his feet and put on his old winter coat to hide his torn clothes. Without looking back he left the place that had been supposed to provide a home for them and stepped into the cold December night.

* * *

><p><span>Author<span>'s note:

Well, I hope whoever reads this story is not fuming at me right now. The plot was inspired by a LOTR fanfic, actually, that included Legolas in disguise, Aragorn, a dungeon and a whip. The last sentence, as far as I remember, was something like "Legolas, you're getting much too kinky for your own good", and I rolled around on the floor laughing for about five minutes.

But as it goes my stories have a bad habit of meandering, developing their own ideas and plots quite contrary to the author's original intention.

That definitely happened before to what was supposed to be a short, funny ficlet of mine, started about a year ago in response to a droll "what if" question concerning the Coldfire Trilogy. For those who suspect what I allude to: yes, it had something to do with taking notes, lol. Unfortunately said 'short, funny ficlet' mutated into two different mammoth stories, both of them definitively unfunny, to put it mildly. For one of the stories I still have to write an Inquisition process (poor Damien) and a battle on horses, alas! My knowledge of battles, on horses, on foot or on wings, is next to nonexistent, but maybe I will find some very welcome enlightenment in the www. Or borrow Tarrant's twelve volumes on the Art of War, lol.

Oops, I am rambling again. Sorry! Hope I haven't offended anybody with this story. I just can't stop wondering if you can shrug off a millennium of evil like a mantle… I don't really think so, but who knows?

You might have to wait a bit for the next chapter. I've already got a rough draft, but I'm not happy with it yet. To make things worse exams are looming, and Christmas is near, a marvellous but very busy time of the year…Sigh!


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter six**

I still don't own the Coldfire Trilogy, only Nurse Mildred

Still bleeding and half crazy with pain and grief Damien stumbled along, not even aware where his feet were leading him on his aimless wanderings. Faintly he heard some happy voices laughing and singing merrily, and he remembered that, although the Church had had to abandon most of the ancient Earth traditions in its early years on Erna, for the faithful as well as for the pagan multitudes yuletide was the time of blissful celebration with family and friends.

Damien had never felt more alone in his whole life, not even when his only company had been a certain undead abomination, and for a moment he felt tempted to look for a final resting place in the pure, soft snow. No memories anymore, no sorrows, no pain. No Gerald.

Something moved in the shadows behind him, and Damien tried to merge with the dark. '_When __you __hear __footsteps __behind __you __in __a __darkened __street, __do __you __fear __being __kidnapped? __Raped? __Overcome __by __the __sheer __physical __strength __of __your __attackers?__' _(BSR, page 522) Gerald had asked him that question once, years ago. Now the adept had taught him a lesson about the '_mindset __of __the __vulnerable__', _had driven his painful lesson home with his nails, teeth and …" Damien leaned against a wall and vomited into the snow_._

Although his stomach was already empty Damien was still retching helplessly when his dry heaving was interrupted by a female voice, resolute, competent and slightly familiar. "Doctor Vryce? Doctor Vryce, what's wrong with you?"

Strong hands pulled him into the light of one of the street lamps, and the horrified gasp of the woman told Damien more than he actually wanted to know. "Merciful God, what happened to you? Have you been mugged?"

Damien nodded, not eager to particularize. Let her come to her own conclusions. Blinking through the slits of his swollen eyes he realized that he had just bumped into his head nurse, seemingly on her way to the night shift. Nurse Mildred, yes, now he remembered her name. Some of the younger nurses called her "the old dragon" behind her back, but Damien had always appreciated her professionalism and the caring heart safely hidden behind her gruff manners. She would help him without creating a fuss, and Vryce needed help badly. His already badly impaired vision was narrowing to a tunnel, and he had started to shiver violently.

"Please… help me… no police, okay?"

To the end of his days Damien wouldn't remember how he got to the 'Neocount of Merentha', barely able to stumble on his feet through the festively decorated streets, his arm around Mildred's supportive shoulders.

He woke up in a hospital bed in his own ward hours later, with Nurse Mildred at his side who had evidently delegated her usual duties to guard his fitful sleep. The better part of his body seemed to be wrapped in bandages, but none of his wounds hurt as much as his heart and soul. _How __could __Ger_…? No, as old as he might get he wouldn't speak that name again, wouldn't even allow himself to think of Gerald Tarrant. For him the adept had ceased to exist, had died as finally as if he'd never been revived on Mount Shaitan, and his own feelings for that wretched son of a bitch had died with him.

"How are you, Doc?" the nurse enquired gently. "Looks like you had a hell of a battering. I've cleaned your wounds; had to stitch you up a bit, but nothing too bad. No broken bones, at least, and no concussion, but you're going to sport some marvellous black eyes for some days."

A correct diagnosis, but unfortunately not the full extent of Damien's injuries. Pulling off his tattered clothing the nurse had found traces of semen on his underpants, and the slight anal bleeding had confirmed her suspicions. Mildred swallowed, taking in the bleak look in Damien's eyes, the utter aura of despair. How many times she had been the one to sit at a desperate woman's bed, holding her hands for comfort while trying to coax the victim into naming her attacker. That it had to be Damien now…

Inwardly Mildred sighed, her heart bleeding for the healer, but she kept her voice steady, soothing. "Please, Doctor Vryce, forgive me, but I had to undress you to tend for you, and, well, it seemed to me that the thugs didn't settle for beating you up. I'm so sorry. If you want to talk about it…" Despite her years of experience the nurse fidgeted, and her voice trailed off helplessly.

Damien shook his head and closed his eyes in a desperate attempt to shut out the world, trying to concentrate on his breathing, on the sharp ache of his bruises and the dull throb inside his head, on anything that could serve to distract him from his memories. He even welcomed the hurt of his body, wished he could make it stronger.

From a place far, far away Damien registered that Mildred was holding his hand, stroking it gently, and that she was blowing her nose now and then. At long last he managed to pull himself together and asked for a fresh cup of herbal tea, knowing very well that that would take some time. And time was exactly what he needed now.

When the head nurse had rushed off Damien forced his body into a sitting position and swung his legs to the floor. Wincing with pain he had to stop for a moment until the room ceased to dance wildly. Dear God, he hurt so much, and all he wanted to do was to lay back in his bed and go back to sleep again, forgetting all about _that__man__'__s_ behaviour, but he couldn't. He had to get out of this place as soon as possible, far away from prying eyes.

His clothes were on the chair beside his bed, bloody and torn to shreds, but they would have to do. He couldn't possibly leave in one of those hospital shirts reserved for the unfortunate patients of the intensive care unit. And who cared? There was nobody in his life anymore to tease him for his lack of taste or to fret over an annoying spot on a silk sleeve. Nevermore. Damien gritted his teeth against the sob that threatened to escape his chest.

Vryce was halfway into his clothes when Nurse Mildred returned with the freshly brewed herbal infusion. With a loud bang the cup shattered on the floor, and the steaming tea splashed in all directions. "What for the love of God do you think you are doing, Doc? Go back to bed immediately!"

"Doctors, really", the nurse muttered under her breath, full of exasperation. "There are no worse patients. Always know better." Her grumbling was abruptly cut off when she noticed Damien's reaction to the loud noise and her gruff tones. The healer was shrinking back from her, his eyes wide with dread.

"No, please, not again!" The desperate pleading in Damien's voice cut through Mildred's forced anger like a sword, and her breath hitched in her throat. Dear Creator, that poor man!

It took the head nurse some effort and several cups of tea until Damien stopped shaking and calmed down a bit, but he still insisted on leaving the hospital in the middle of the night, until Mildred relented grudgingly. "But you don't really expect me to just let you wander off, do you? You won't even get close to your home in your condition, Doc."

Damien almost laughed aloud hysterically. Home? Which home? Slowly, very carefully, he shook his head. "Hotel room. I have no home. Never had one." There was no way to keep the bitterness from his voice, and understanding dawned in the nurses eyes.

If she'd ever seen the air literally sizzling with desire it had been about a month ago when Doctor Vryce had brought a guest to the hospital, giving him a tour of his workplace. The pretty youth, evidently at least 15 years younger than Vryce, had been introduced as Gerald Hawthorne, Damien's 'friend', but the nurse was no fool, and witnessing the longing looks that passed between the two men and their 'accidental' little touches she could have told her young, swooning trainee nurses right away that their inviting smiles and batting of eyelashes was love's labour lost.

Instead of being the 'toy boy' the nurse had first suspected Mer Hawthorne had, in spite of his youth, quickly proved to be a cultivated and very intelligent man whose profound knowledge on various topics surpassed his age by far, and Nurse Mildred had been quite taken herself by his politeness and good manners.

Try as she might she couldn't imagine Hawthorne committing the kind of atrocities that had been done to the poor doctor, but you could never tell. Working in a hospital brought its own joys, but also confronted one with the bestial side of humanity sometimes, and tending to the victims of domestic violence was always a heart-rending experience. Over the years she had lost count of the weeping, innocent looking men with decent jobs, carrying a bunch of flowers in the same shaking hands that had beaten their wives or girlfriends to a bloody mess not long ago.

How a bulky fellow like Doctor Vryce could have possibly been abused by the slender youth was hard to imagine, though, but it was none of her business. If her adored boss didn't want to talk about his ordeal she would keep her mouth shut, but help him as best as she could. Letting that wretched, abused soul wander off into the night, injured and homeless, was out of the question.

So about an hour and several urgent messages later Damien was installed with Mildred's only son Michael, a driver for one of Jaggonath's bigger transport companies, and, in his late thirties, still a convinced bachelor, much to the nurse's dismay who still hoped for some grandchildren.

Eight days later Damien contemplated resuming work the following Monday. Nurse Mildred had promised solemnly to provide his colleagues with as little information as possible concerning his sick leave. No need to divulge too many details. Mugged by a street gang he had taken some days off, and that was about everything they would ever get to know. Or so Vryce hoped.

Damien's physical wounds had healed considerably, and when he, at long last, dared a look into the bathroom mirror he recognized his face, although he looked pale and drawn. It occurred to him that, after the initial blows to his head, presumably delivered purposefully to disorientate him, the vulking son of a bitch had preferred to assault his body instead, but the scratches and bite marks were already caked with no signs of an impending infection. Blessed with excellent healing flesh for as long as Damien remembered very possibly not even scars would remain. On his body, that is. The scars on his soul were an altogether different matter.

When the door bell chimed he didn't suspect anything irregular. Maybe Michael had forgotten his keys, or the postman wanted to deliver a Yuletide parcel. Opening the door Damien froze and forgot how to breathe.

Author's note: Well, editing this chapter didn't take as long as I expected, because I'm on sick leave. I'm still not too happy with it, but it'll have to do for now. Sigh! Oh, the hospital is named after heroic Andrys, of course...


	7. Chapter 7

**The Hunt is on**

**Chapter seven:**

"May I come in?" The youthful, cool voice with its familiar cadences was perfectly controlled, the pretty face set and kept carefully blank, but Damien knew Gerald well enough to register the slight twitch of his mouth, the stiff back and the unusual pallor barely veiled by his tan. Without a doubt Hawthorne looked as if he had spent the last week in hell.

_A hell of his own making. Same business as usual_, Damien thought acidly. For a moment he contemplated slamming the door into the vulking bastard's face, but then the adept's dark eyes caught his own, and his heart leaped into his mouth. When he was finally able to make his legs move again he stepped aside wordlessly, inviting Hawthorne in with a curt nod of his head.

In the living room Gerald threw back his cloak with a perfect sweep of black braid and blood red velvet trimmed with unfox fur, and Damien's heart stumbled painfully inside his chest. He had bought the very same cloak for his lover just a few weeks ago, spending the last remnants of the patriarch's allowance without a second thought, but now it seemed a lifetime.

Against his will Vryce remembered Gerald's delighted smile when he'd unwrapped the parcel, and how well the deep carmine had complemented the black hair and the olive coloured skin. And even more clearly, the seductive vision burned into his retinas, he remembered the adept reclining on their big bed, wearing just the cloak plus an inviting smile and beckoning him with open arms.

The former priest swallowed convulsively. The lascivious image had rekindled some strange feelings deep down inside his guts, feelings he'd thought dead and gone for good. Then his eyes locked on the sword girdled at Hawthorne's side, his own sword with the flame patterned hilt, and all his senses went on red alert.

"Come to finish what you started?" Damien spat, his voice lined with menace. If Gerald lifted so much as his little finger in a threatening manner he was prepared to fight until the angel of death had claimed at least one of them.

The adept glared at him, but when he answered the tones were even, the diction perfect. "I've come here, Damien Vryce, to pay for my deeds."

Damien was still staring at Hawthorne, eyes wide and his mouth agape in complete bafflement, when Gerald drew the sword and went down on his right knee in one fluent, effortless motion, just to offer Damien the lethal weapon resting on his palms.

From far, far away the mundane noises of a bustling city penetrated Vryce's ears while he gazed down on Hawthorne and the sharp blade glittering in the last rays of the dying sun, and his thoughts tumbled over each other. It was too much, everything was too much. On his knees he had prayed to God never to see Gerald Hawthorne again, but now the adept was kneeling right in front of him, waiting for … what?

The haunting gaze seemed to draw Vryce in, deep down into that unfathomable soul, into a mind so complex that even scratching the surface might take him several lifetimes. Damien felt slightly light-headed, and his breath came in short, ragged gasps.

"What do you want? My forgiveness?" he asked hoarsely, nearly choking on his words, while the knowing eyes dominating the young, innocent visage were locked on him mercilessly, piercing his soul like a poisoned dagger.

A slow, but deadly poison, that's what Gerald had been to him right from the beginning, invading his veins at first, then spreading through his ravaged body like a wildfire until its bittersweet caress had reached his fallible heart. Undead or alive, beyond the beautiful package that man was death itself, corrupted to his rotten core, tainting everything and everybody succumbing to his lure. But yet the childish illusions had been so sweet as long as they'd lasted…

Swaying on his feet precariously Damien felt the bile rising in his throat, a sickening draught as bitter as the darkness inside him, and he had to close his eyes and take some deep breaths to get a grip on himself again.

If he had continued looking at Hawthorne he wouldn't have missed the profound compassion on his lover's face, the adept's muscles taut like a bowstring, ready to catch the teetering ex-priest, but when Damien reopened his eyes with some effort the impassive, haughty façade was firmly in place again, the outstretched arms presenting the heavy sword perfectly still, the posture of the slender body impeccable.

"Don't be ridiculous, Vryce", Gerald snorted disdainfully. "I've already briefed you on the purpose of my visit. Have you forgotten your church traditions, Knight of the Order of the Golden Flame?"

_Church traditions?_ What the hell was the vulking bastard referring to? There were so bloody many of them. By now Damien's head was spinning, and he desperately tried to focus his thoughts. Solving the adept's riddle was of vital importance; he could feel it in his bones. _Think, Vryce_, he reprimanded himself. _Push your feelings aside and think! He's up to something, that planning and scheming bastard, and your very life could depend on your wits. _

Gerald Tarrant had been born at the end of the dark ages almost a thousand years ago, an ocean of time if there'd ever been one. That long forgotten age of self justice and brutality had spawned different values, customs and morals, based on the survival of the fittest. As one of the founders of the Revivalist movement and King Gannon's brilliant strategist Gerald had doubtlessly witnessed his own fair share of gory battles, defeat and victory.

_Not to mention_, Damien reminded himself with a sinking heart, _that he used to be the premier knight of my order, a title that had never been taken from him officially._

Knight of the Realm, the very man who, according to legend, had abolished the quite common practise of torturing prisoners of war until death couldn't come quickly enough for those poor souls who hadn't been lucky enough to die on the battlefield. When the Prophet had been leading his troops into battle his soldiers had been very well advised to abstain from those bestial atrocities. Vanquished foes had been taken into custody instead, under reasonably tolerable conditions, until they'd agreed to swear allegiance to Gannon. Most of them had, and to the few stalwart rebels who'd refused to submit a quick, merciful death by a sharp blade had been granted.

All at once the unexpected reminiscence of an ancient oil painting reverently kept behind glass in the church archive back at Ganji floated through Damien's overwrought mind. The picture had darkened over the centuries, and tiny cracks on the canvas impaired the motive, but it had supposedly been painted during the Prophet's lifetime, in the aftermath of the victorious battle of Sherwood that had at last established Gannon's reign in the East.

The Prophet was depicted in the full ornate of the Order of the Golden Flame, the collar with the flame pattern on his shoulders, matching sword at his side, but following church custom the imposing figure had no face. There were still faint traces visible, but not enough to recognize the features. Whoever had meddled with the original painting by order of the religious authorities had done a fine job, eradicating the man's identity, but keeping the religious message intact.

At the Prophet's feet knelt an older, dark-haired man in torn, bloody rags that possibly had been fine garments made from velvet and silk once. He looked battered and filthy, but not defeated, and the skilled painter had managed to catch his air of defiance and supreme arrogance.

_The Neoduke of Warringham_, Damien thought absentmindedly. That son of a bitch had been the leader of the rebels from the beginning, one of the few stubborn mules who had refused to swear allegiance to Gannon right to the end. Warringham offered his sword to the victorious leader of the royal troops, asking for an honourable death, and if Damien remembered his history lesson correctly the Prophet had awarded his bravado by beheading him personally.

"It's better to die with honour that to live without it." The quiet voice dragging the former priest from his reverie was a mere whisper, lacking the adept's familiar superciliousness, but laced with a deadly conviction that made Vryce's hairs stand on end all over his body."

Looking down on the man who was still patiently kneeling on the floor, sword held high, Damien at long last got the cryptic message, understood with sickening finality what was expected from him, and his blood ran cold with dread.

More than once Damien had sworn to kill the Hunter, to rid the world of his evil taint forever, one more nocturnal nightmare wiped off the face of their haunted planet, condemned to eternal suffering in hell. Right at the beginning of their acquaintance, at learning how far the Prophet had truly fallen from grace, he would even have rejoiced in the killing.

But the man at his feet was a human being now, with red blood running in his veins, breathing, sleeping and dreaming just like everybody else. A man with the chance of redemption, of finding his way back to God, even if the road was narrow, steep and overgrown with the thorny thickets of pride, hubris and vanity.

Damien's head started to swim. Gerald Tarrant had feared nothing more than death in his long and rather colourful existence, death and what was waiting for him in the afterlife. Most certainly he wasn't seriously contemplating to throw his new chance away for nothing. No, that had to be a bad joke or, more likely, one of Gerald's familiar schemes, and Damien was his favourite pawn. A toy, waiting to be cherished or broken at the owner's will.

The metaphorical dagger buried deeply inside Damien's chest twisted slightly, spreading cold fire and in its wake, uncoiling like an unclean snake hidden deeply inside him, a blinding rage so powerful that the pernicious demon of vengeance rattled at the bars of the iron cage that kept it confined to the deepest recesses of Damien's soul with a ferocious roar.

Ridding himself of Gerald Hawthorne's presence for good was an easily accomplished task, after all; neither sword nor springbolt were necessary for its execution. _Just call that bastard by his true name,_ the demon murmured seductively, _and the sound of your voice whispering 'Tarrant' tenderly, like the lover you foolishly wanted to be, will be the last thing he ever hears before the fae consumes him._ _Watch him disintegrate or burn to cinders, and pick up the pieces of your miserable life._ Damien gritted his teeth, resisting the appalling temptation with all his might.

"If you really think I'm going to chop your head off with that bloody sword of mine you are even more deranged than I have already suspected, you crazy bastard", Damien barked, barely recognizing his own voice. "Get out of this house, enjoy yourself wreaking havoc on other people's life, but stop that vulking nonsense about _church traditions_! I don't remember rape is included among them!"

For a mere second Gerald closed his eyes, a haunted look on his face, and a barely perceptible flinch passed through his body, but centuries of self discipline quickly subdued that short-lived moment of weakness.

"Is it not? Honestly, Vryce, you might have to reread some of the chapters on church history, starting with the Prophet's essays, preferably. A very enlightening lecture, I'd say. But that's not the point."

By now Damien fumed. Whatever his surname, Gerald was still an insufferable pain in the arse, and he had had it. "You might not believe it, you bitchy, incorrigible ass, but for once I thoroughly agree with you. That's not the point, and don't you dare to poke fun at me. I've had enough of your 'enlightenment', thank you."

Lost in his traumatic memories Vryce felt the fire going out of him until only sorrow remained. "What you did to me… How could you, Gerald? I simply don't understand. It's not that I made myself scarce in your bed, exactly. Why…?" Damien's voice deserted him, and he turned away to hide the treacherous wetness in his eyes.

"I don't make a habit of explaining myself, as you very well know, Vryce."

Damien was struck speechless, completely dumbfounded by the utter lack of emotion in Gerald's voice, his terrible, inhuman detachment. It was unbelievable that this was the same man who had writhed in his arms, shaking and moaning his name, who had gazed at him languidly, smiling the private little smile only reserved for Damien, the dark, beguiling eyes still glazed over with pleasure and full of wonder. The same man he'd gone to hell and back for. Did all that count for nothing?

Overwhelmed by his grief the warrior knight faced his nemesis, not giving a damn that by now tears were running down his cheeks in rivulets. Hawthorne wouldn't care for his feelings, anyway, just file away the information for further reference in the cold, analytic monstrosity that might have been a human soul ages ago.

"Don't you think that's a bit below yourself, Gerald?" Damien choked out, barely able to get the words through his constricted throat. "Dear God, spare me your bloody phrases, and don't treat me like an ignorant child."

Sufficient to know that I lost control, and that I regret what happened. Deeply, but what has been done cannot be undone anymore. Not even by me", Hawthorne added with a faint, self deprecating smile. "Take your sword, Damien. If you've ever felt anything for me, take it, and use the tool you must."

When realization finally dawned Damien gasped for air, and the ice water that once had been his warm, living blood spread a glacial chill from his heart to his numb limbs. 'It's better to die with honour that to live without it.' Those had been the adept's very words, spoken with utter conviction while Gerald calmly waited for the fatal blow to fall. Vulking Gerald Tarrant and his vulking pride and sense of honour. No, this wasn't one of the adept's usual manipulative schemes. Gerald meant business, and in a trancelike state Damien watched from a dark, reclusive place hidden somewhere behind his eyes as his right arm moved on its own account, taking the sword with the flame patterned hilt from his lover's hands.

"Thank you", Hawthorne breathed, and to Vryce's heartfelt horror there was no hesitation in his quiet voice, no wavering, just a steely resolve that made his heart clench with dread. "I deposited my will and a letter for you at Brooks and Sons, the lawyers in King's Road. It was an honour and an enlightenment to meet you, Damien Kilcannon Vryce. And now let's get it over with. I've already said my prayers before I came here."

Damien's heart hammered, and breathing became increasingly difficult while his vision narrowed to a tunnel that excluded all and everything but Gerald's serene, tranquil face. A face he'd often stared at during the darkest hours of the night, when his lover had been deeply asleep, revelling in the way the moonlight played on high cheekbones and glistened in those lush, black strands of hair. His life had been filled with joy and wonder, then, Gerald's familiar acerbic sarcasm and antics a welcome reminder of another life, another time, but his bliss hadn't endured, but had been replaced by this horrifying nightmare much too soon.

'_For there are these three things that endure: Faith, Hope and Love, but the greatest of these is love."_

Out of nowhere a sweet, soothing voice seemed to whisper those ancient words that had travelled with mankind to Erna into his ears, and Damien shivered. His very identity had been based on those three pillars, an all encompassing faith in the One God, hope for a better future of mankind on Erna and his love of the Lord and his fallible children. And Gerald Hawthorne was one of them still, even after all those years in the service of pure evil.

Maybe Damien's entire life, his calling as a priest, had just been the preparation for this very day, and God in his infinite wisdom had chosen him for guiding his fallen prophet back into the light, offering this ever so slim chance at redemption for a soul that had committed atrocities far beyond human imagination for centuries. A daunting assignment, if there'd ever been one, but gazing down on the adept Damien all at once was absolutely sure that if love truly was the key to Gerald's salvation he was still well equipped for the task. And who was he to oppose the Lord's will?

Drawing a deep breath the warrior knight lowered his sword. "No. I still love you, may God have mercy upon me, and I won't kill you. Not now, not ever. Period."

Hawthorne blinked at the blunt confession, and this time Damien didn't miss the fleeting look of sorrow and desolation that passed over the young visage. "Then do it for love, Damien. Give me peace."

When Vryce just shook his head the adept's face hardened, and a hint of barely hidden steel glimmered just below the surface of his impassive voice and belied his enforced calm. "May I remind you, priest, that suicide is still a capital sin in the eyes of the Church?"

_Suicide?_ The most capable survivalist who'd ever walked their crazy planet, the very same man who'd sacrificed his family and his humanity for his continuing existence, was contemplating suicide? Damien goggled, not quite believing his ears. Somehow this blasted mess was spinning rapidly out of control, but he was too agitated, too frightened to get his brain working properly.

"Vulking hell, Gerald, don't you get into your thick head that dying for your blasted honour is not required? If the fact has somehow escaped your notice we don't live in the Revivalist period, anymore. You want my forgiveness? You can have it on a silver plate! Dear God, I don't want you to die!

His desperate appeal was abruptly stopped when the adept jumped to his feet in a blink, his iron self-control shattered at long last under the strain. Damien reared back, shocked by the ferocity of the movement.

"You don't understand, Vryce! You _can't_ understand. Are you truly so delusional to assume one can shrug off a millennium of evil just by becoming mortal again? My body is human, yes, but the state of my soul, priest, that's something altogether different."

All composure finally gone Gerald's voice pitched up to a wild outcry that caused Damien's teeth to clatter uncontrollably.

"I can't control it, Vryce! You've already had first hand experience at what will happen when the darkness within me smothers my humanity. I almost killed you, Damien, the one and only human being I don't want to hurt. Do you want me to live like that, a mindless, bloodthirsty monster craving for human suffering, just like the Hunter in those first damnable years after his transformation? I'd rather die than leading that kind of pitiful half-existence.

So that was the mystery behind Gerald's attack on him. Over the passing of centuries Tarrant's sadistic pleasure at torturing and killing had become an inseparable part of the adept's personality, and when the Hunter had died on Shaitan unfortunately those disturbing instincts hadn't perished with him.

Damien stood paralyzed, cursing his helplessness, and his heart bled for Hawthorne when he imagined his lover's lonely, fruitless battle to repress those infernal urges.

"Gerald, we'll work something out, I promise. You don't have to sacrifice your life. Gerald, please…!" Damien was very well aware that he'd been reduced to babbling incoherently, but stark panic was beginning to tighten its clutches around him, fuelled by a gut feeling that somehow he was running out of time, that something dreadful was about to happen that would shatter his world forever.

His already impaired capacity for rational thinking evaporated completely when Gerald became completely still, bereft of any movement.

"I hoped you would have granted me a quick, clean end, my friend, but maybe dying this way is a fitting punishment for my sins." The adept balled his fists, head held up high and his back straight. "I'm Gerald…"

Those were his last words for a while, because for once Damien had anticipated his actions and brought down his sword. Turning the blade around in the last possible moment he knocked Gerald out cold with the flat side.

Author's note:

Argh, if your stories are truly your children this was a difficult delivery, lol. Sorry that you had to wait for this chapter a little bit longer, but writing it was a grim battle with my own ineptitude… I knew from the beginning WHAT I wanted to write, but the HOW cost me some nerves, bucketfuls of coffee and several packets of fags. Maybe the worst of it was the fact that the boys mustn't talk about Gerald's former existence. I tried very hard to take this into consideration, but had to ignore it once ('My body is human…' and so on). Sorry for that. Maybe I can fix it later, when I'm not completely sleep deprived. Just one more, rather short chappie now, thank God.

More notes on the character's motives and the probability of their actions in the last chapter.

The battle of _Sherwood_? Lol! Maybe I should abstain from reading books about Robin Hood… Would make a nice crossover, though, but there are about ten projects haunting my vivid imagination already, so this will definitely have to wait.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter eight**

Warnings: hints at child abuse and incest, but nothing remotely explicit, so everybody should be fine…

"Ouch!"

Gerald's right arm rose in slow motion as he weakly groped for the wet cloth a very worried Damien had placed on his face at what seemed ages ago. He had been unconscious for almost an hour now, and for his taste the warrior knight had come too damn close to biting his nails in despair, alternating between cursing himself and vulking Gerald Hawthorne and whispering bits of meaningless nonsense born from sheer fright into the adept's deaf ears.

Gently Vryce caught the trembling fingers in his own so much blunter ones and pulled them away from the cloth mercifully hiding the nasty bruise that had developed on Gerald's forehead. "Shush! Lie still and leave that bloody rag in peace. How do you feel?"

One dark eye opened laboriously and tried to focus itself on Damien's face. "I feel perfectly fine, Vryce," Gerald croaked hoarsely, "if one ignores the negligible fact that you graced me with a bump the size of a goose egg and a very enthusiastic blacksmith is shoeing a whole herd of true horses inside my head. Couldn't you have settled for a less radical method?"

Damien couldn't help but stare at the adept, mouth agape. He had just rescued that demented son of a bitch's crazy butt from certain doom again, and that patronizing bastard dared to criticise him for the manner of saving his life? Despite his concerns about Gerald's health, not to mention his mental sanity, Damien's temper got the better of him.

"You are the right one to complain about radical methods, my ass. Who came here out of the blue to get his bloody head chopped off his stiff neck, you or me? And who decided to explore his suicidal tendencies in my presence? Damn you, Gerald, you scared the shit out of me! You…"

When Gerald turned an alarming shade of green and rolled over onto his stomach with a groan Damien stopped in mid rant and counted his blessings instead that he had provided for a basin and some clean towels within reach. Listening to the adept's retching the former priest called himself three times a fool for his rash course of action, but frightened out of his wits and forced to make a split-second decision he simply hadn't been able to come up with a better solution. Impartially considered a concussion was still preferable to death, although Damien was pretty sure that right now Gerald wouldn't agree with him.

When his helpless heaving had finally come to an end the adept flopped back onto his back, his feeble attempts to clean himself up nipped in the bud by sheer exhaustion. Damien had just started wiping his sweaty face, overwhelmed with guilt and worry, when Hawthorne dozed off into the realms of sleep without so much as acknowledging his presence once more. With a small sigh Vryce cradled one of his limp, cold hands in his calloused fingers and settled for a renewed lonely vigil at Gerald's side once more. Somehow grateful for the short respite Damien started to ponder his options.

The single candle had already burned down considerably when Gerald woke up from his healing sleep, looking much more alert than a few hours ago. A hint of colour had returned to the adept's face, and the dark eyes focussed on Damien with their familiar, disquieting stare. To Vryce's heartfelt relief the matching size of the pupils indicated that very probably Gerald was suffering from nothing worse than a mild concussion, unpleasant, but not life threatening, and a heavy load fell off the warrior knight's heart.

"Better?"

For a long moment Hawthorne didn't answer, his intense gaze flickering back and forth between Damien's dear, rugged face and their entwined hands, and warring feelings were gliding over his young visage like sunlight flittering through leaves. Guilt, shame and stark relief mingled with heartfelt affection for the kind soul who had somehow forgiven the unforgivable again, a miracle that Gerald would never be able to fully comprehend.

Although the adept might never be able to voice them aloud the dark eyes shone with emotions Damien had no problems to decipher for once, and his heart skipped a beat when Gerald's free hand touched his cheek for a moment, the fleeting caress light as a feather.

Maybe Hawthorne's road to redemption proved to be longer and stonier than the warrior knight had expected, but down that road they would walk, shoulder to shoulder, just the way they had managed during those last, incredible years despite their vast differences and squabbles, even if he had to drag the unwilling adept all along the way to salvation. Allowing himself to relish the image of a kicking and screaming Gerald for a second or two Damien grinned despite his worries. Very possibly his lover would stumble into the traps of pride, hubris and sadism now and then, but he would be there to catch him, pushing the biggest pitfalls out of the way and keeping harm from having a closer look at Gerald Hawthorne at whatever cost to himself.

_You made your bed, now sleep in it_, Damien thought wryly. With regard to Gerald's peculiar character it was very likely that this bed would rather consist of a thorny, bristling pallet instead of offering a safe resting place snugly strewn with cosy pillows, but the comforting whisper 'the greatest of it is love' was still ringing in Damien's ears, and the warrior knight smiled, not giving a damn if each and every sane human being might call him a complete fool for still harbouring tender feelings for the man who had once been the Hunter. And besides: who could be better equipped for guiding the fallen Prophet back to God but a former priest?

Vryce's feelings must have been clearly written on his face, because Gerald swallowed convulsively, his lips slightly trembling, and closed his eyes for a moment in a desperate attempt to get a grip on himself. It took him some effort, but when at long last he focussed on his companion again his gaze was perfectly steady, and the youthful voice carried a hint of its familiar acerbic sarcasm.

"I might decide whether I feel better", Gerald snorted, "after you've kindly supplied me with some water. That foul taste is nigh to unbearable. I wouldn't be surprised if the sewers of Jaggonath had been temporarily redirected straight into my intestines."

"Would serve you right, you cranky ass", Damien muttered under his breath, barely able to hide a smirk. So things were about getting back to normal between them, although 'normal' in their case had always been a relative term, and if falling back on his inherent condescension made the adept feel better it was fine by him.

When Hawthorne had rinsed his mouth and had gingerly swallowed a few sips of water his dark, fathomless eyes locked with Damien's again, and Vryce held his breath.

"You'll never give up, won't you, Vryce?"

Gently Damien squeezed the slender fingers. "The day I will give up on you will be the day hell freezes over. And", he added thoughtfully, "from what I've seen that's not going to happen anytime soon."

Gerald shook his head, evidently a rather bad idea, because he stopped in mid motion with a stifled groan and shut his eyes again. "Try as I might, I can't understand you, Damien. What I did to you… How can you forgive me so easily? In your stead I would have relished in killing my attacker slowly, making him beg for his death. You cannot imagine what I did to my sib…"

With a gasp Gerald cut himself off and blanched, and realizing what had almost happened Damien froze with dread. Hawthorne had told him on Black Ridge Pass that any reference to his former existence was strictly prohibited if he wanted to secure his continuing existence on their weird, wondrous planet, but in his desolate, weakened state the adept's mouth had run away with him, and he'd stopped just one inch short of disaster. Then Damien's brain caught up with the horrendous meaning lurking behind Gerald's quiet words, and he very nearly had to reach for the basin that he'd cleaned half an hour ago himself.

In the quiet twilight hours at sea, with no company but the wind and the waves, Damien had sometimes wondered what kind of atrocities could have inspired the fierce hatred Gerald still felt for his siblings after a millennium, a hatred that had clearly been evident in Tarrant's usually so composed voice when they had talked about his family once, in the pursuit of the Master of Lema. If he had allowed himself to pursue that line of thought a bit further, adding the facts revealed in their conversation to Gerald's sadistic impulses and his fastidiousness, he might have been able to join the dots even then. But maybe he just hadn't wanted to know…

Apparently the old saying that a victim could either be a righteous avenger or a twisted copy of the perpetrator, but nothing in between, was true, and it was no surprise that Gerald had assaulted him and all those helpless women who had served as his prey over the centuries in his special manner, using inflicting pain on helpless victims for the only kind of sexual stimulation still available for him. The mere thought of what very likely had been done to Hawthorne in his childhood to twist an innocent, young soul into this nightmare version of itself made Damien's teeth clatter.

For a moment the two men just looked at each other without moving a limb, not even breathing, but then the spell dissolved, and Hawthorne abruptly ripped his hand from Vryce's grip and struggled to get up, but fell back with a stifled moan.

"Leave me be, Vryce", Gerald whispered, eyes closed and his face averted. "Just leave me be and let me enjoy your hospitality until I'm able to stand on my own. You don't have to stay at my side out of a misplaced sense of duty. I will find my way out, don't worry."

Once again Damien was at the loss of words. _'A misplaced sense of duty?'_ What the hell was Gerald talking about now? Then realization dawned, and he turned his lover around gently and cupped his face in his hands. "Listen, Gerald, maybe nobody has ever bothered to tell you yet, but there's no guilt in being victimized. Do you understand what I'm talking about, you stubborn, proud bastard?"

A hint of defiance flashed over Hawthorne's features, but at long last he nodded, and Damien had to stifle a sigh of relief. Hopefully they would be able to have a look at those nasty skeletons in Gerald's closet one day; getting that heavy burden off his chest might support the healing process of the adept's soul, even if they would have to talk about it in that laborious, impersonal way he still wasn't quite used to. But right now Damien was overjoyed that he didn't have to handle another crisis on top of their earlier misfortune. Even the endurance of a warrior knight had its limits.

"But that still leaves us in a tight spot, doesn't it, Vryce?" Gerald whispered, and a hint of despair had crept back into his quiet voice that was sending a shiver down Damien's spine, but his decision to stand by Hawthorne was irrefutable, Feeling strangely elated and completely at peace with himself Damien bent down and kissed his lover's brow.

"So you can't fight it", the warrior knight enquired gently, "that urge to inflict pain?"

"Just so, Vryce. At least not on the long run. Perhaps this compulsion will eventually subside over time, but until then…" The former Hunter's voice was flat, devoid of emotion, but Damien didn't fail to notice that Gerald's fingers were holding his in a death grip, as if he was afraid that Damien would evaporate into thin air at any second.

"Over time you will find a way. I know you will", Damien replied, surprised at the utter conviction that was ringing in his voice. "And until then, or till death takes one of us, I will try to see to your needs. All of them", Vryce added with a fake grumble, "although I'm quite sure there will be bad days along the good, and I might even be tempted to strangle you now and then."

For a moment Hawthorne just stared at Damien, and the warrior knight half expected to hear the gears inside that brilliant brain moving.

"What exactly are you suggesting, Vryce?"

Oh shit! Whether being a bit slow on the uptake was a consequence of the adept's concussion or the whole idea was so alien to his lover that he needed some time to process the input albeit his intelligence Gerald definitely demanded more effort than a discreet hint, and Damien started to sweat.

Concerning his planned course of action it was quite convenient that he was already kneeling at Gerald's side, but if he had ever dared to picture that special situation his daydreams would have included a romantic candlelight dinner for two, preferably followed by one of those prolonged, passionate fucks that usually left him in a state of breathless bliss, and not an injured adept lying flat on his back and sporting a marvellous bruise. But normality certainly had given Gerald a wide berth for centuries now, an unnerving fact that somehow seemed to have rubbed off on Damien. Despite the small, but icy knot of fear in his guts which had by now replaced his elation Damien had to fight a bout of hysterical laughter.

_Come on, Vryce, _he admonished himself_, pull yourself together and get it over with. He might call you a sentimental, foolish priest and walk out on you, but you will never know if you don't ask the vulking question. Just stop fretting and do it. Now!_

"You do remember the famous words '_to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part'_, don't you? Damien blurted out finally, his rehearsed little speech and his firm resolve not to go like a bull at a gate completely forgotten.

Gerald blinked and opened his mouth, but evidently his acerbic tongue had deserted him for once, and the youthful face showed the very image of utter bemusement, a rare sight that heartened Damien sufficiently to blunder on as best as he could.

"In my opinion", the former priest added with a crooked grin, his breath hitching in his throat, "that a bloody, golden ring would look rather pretty on your hand. What do you think about my suggestion, Gerald?"

Whatever Gerald's opinion on the matter Damien had to wait a while for an answer, but the unique pleasure of seeing the adept spluttering incoherently and gasping for air like a fish out of water was worth the delay.

Author's note: not a short chapter, after all, and I still have to write the epilogue… But at least there's an update now, and after all that drama and angst it was due time for some fluffy stuff at the end ;-)


	9. Chapter 9

**Epilogue:**

Lunch had been roastbeef indeed, Damien's favourite treat, and after they had wined and dined in their spacious, sunny bedroom which bore no resemblance to Hawthorne's sinister lair in the basement Damien dumped the serving trays unceremoniously on the floor, accompanied by a stern, disapproving eye roll of Gerald.

Pernickety discussions concerning dirty dishes and civilised eating habits were nipped in the bud, though, when Damien rolled on top of Gerald, old bones, welts and bruises completely forgotten. Now he wasn't a helpless victim any longer, shackled and tortured for Gerald's pleasure, but an equal, laying claim to his lover's body to his heart's content. Concerning the adept's peculiar inclinations it had been an astounding revelation for Damien that now and then Gerald's arousal reached unsuspected heights when he was treated a bit roughly, and with a slight grin Vryce decided that it was just the right time to put this knowledge into use. Biting down on a stiff nipple he was rewarded with a gasping intake of breath and a long leg wrapping around his buttocks, pulling him closer. Oh yeah, exactly the right time…

Hours later something tickled his nose, and Damien sneezed and woke up with a start, just to find himself tangled in a blanket with Gerald snuggled cosily against him and a strand of black hair which had escaped his lover's dishevelled braid sticking to his face.

A glint of sunlight on metal caught Damien's attention, and his eyes fell on the plain, golden wedding ring on the nightstand which Gerald invariably took off when he prepared for a hunt. Gently Damien kissed the paler stripe of soft skin, hidden from the sun for so many years now, and slipped the token of their union back on the ring finger of Hawthorne's left hand. '_To have and to hold…' _Still sound asleep Gerald sighed quietly and nestled closer to him, a faint smile on his face, and Damien's heart swelled with tenderness.

There _had_ been bad days along the good, days when he had been close to despair and had sought refuge in the cathedral to escape Gerald's derisive comments or, even worse, his icy silences, but all in all Damien had never regretted his decision to stand by the former Hunter. Over the years Gerald's sadistic impulses had become increasingly rare and the eruptions less and less violent, and by now he was quite content with staging a threatening scenery and applying a few lashes, more for the show than to actually inflict pain on him.

Inwardly Damien shook his head and grinned self-deprecatingly. Heaven forbid that some of the admiring trainee doctors or the young, innocent nurses ever found out what was going on behind the closed doors of the respected physician Damien Kilcannon Vryce and his husband, the famous scientist and author Gerald Hawthorne-Vryce. Calling getting bewitched, shackled, whipped and 'raped' by your bond mate an improvement was definitely a bit out of the ordinary, but compared to Gerald's lethal nocturnal habits when they had first met the adept had truly mellowed considerably.

Affectionately Vryce kissed his husband's forehead, and Gerald draped an arm around him and muttered something rather unintelligible under his breath, but Damien could have sworn that a 'love you' had somehow found its way on Gerald's tongue.

'_The greatest of it is love.'_ Damien had never forgotten that tender voice, not in all those years that had passed since his fateful decision to spend the remainder of his earthly days at Gerald's side, come what may, and he whispered a heartfelt prayer, thanking the Lord for saving their lives against all odds and for the precious time they'd been allowed to live side by side. Maybe God in his infinite wisdom would grant them a few additional years filled with love, pleasure and, doubtlessly, a fair amount of bickering. Smiling blissfully Damien drifted off to sleep again.

Author's note: Somehow I'm quite surprised that no angry reviews have appeared yet. Apparently a lot of issues in this story could be discussed controversially. Would Gerald Tarrant really forsake his new existence because of a feeling of guilt/shame/remorse? Would he stoop low enough, or crack up sufficiently, to torture and rape Damien? And, what's more: should you forgive such an atrocious crime?

A lot of strange things are going on at at the moment, and I consider it a bit unnerving that one somehow feels obliged to write a warning every other minute. Nevertheless I would like to state that this story by no means tries to imply that you should "stand by your man" if you get raped, battered, abused or whatever. Get what I mean, ladies? This is a story about two special people who met under very special circumstances, mildly put. I'm not very religious, but in my opinion God chose Damien to guide his fallen prophet back into the light. In 'real life' on good old Earth I'd rather suggest: kick the bastard's ass!


End file.
